Retro Speck

now that you mention it…

So it’s like a fortnight ago.

Whoa.

Let’s get two things straight real quick.
1.) It’s not spelled “woah.”
2.) I will do whatever I think/feel is best at the time.

Right now, that means telling this story thus.

While we’re (kind of) on this subject, “yea” and “yeah” are not (exactly) synonymous, either. We gotta get on the same page, people. Yea sounds like yay {when said correctly} and is the traditionally oppositional vote to nay. You’re with me (still/now), yeah?

From imagination to reality, I effort to discover every tipping point upon the our line of potential. I want to know what’s possible.

I’m trying to write what my emotions indicate that I should say. This is difficult for a half-human who feels like shit while simultaneously not feeling shit.

Obviously we escape(d) that night, and some time has passed since then, but there is something called retrospect, and it is a vital ingredient in any of the best recipes for our continued survival.

Plus, fuck it, right? You’ve come this far. I’m trying to, uhhh, do something (very weird), and I don’t know how long it’ll take, ya see, because I’m not psychic.

We’re backing up a bit here, okay? To minimize the chances of adverse effects, we’re messing with (your perception of) time. Let’s just say that’s why we’re revisiting the past from a different angle [“security reasons”], and choose to believe it for now.

Feel important.

Look how far you’ve come.

Now that “all hell” has broken loose, once “the shit (really) hits the fan,” you’ll have a better chance of continuing (to survive) than most.

And let me simplify one of (m{y/our}) many situations: I’ve felt an emotional response which seems to be indicating that Thierry and I have been mentally “fucking,” which creates physical confusion in the present.

What can I say? Clearly, she feeds off my energy. And I am gobbling hers because it’s incredibly delicious and complex and I can’t help myself and stop judging me, asshole(s). Judge yourself. What else can I say? She and I—we’re extremely odd. We don’t talk about normal crap. Yonder way down comes a list of recent topics about which you may not know (by now that) we’ve discussed at absurd length:

• this
• the present values of methodical psychoanalyses
• that
• the prospect of elevating pornography to an artistic standard
• the other

The girl knows she’s shrewd, but she has no clue how brilliant she really is, truly, and she might be the sharpest tack in humanity’s entire boxed history. People, I’m not that much smarter than she. You need to pay attention to TNT as much as you should be listening to me.

And her smell. Especially after a long day. Don’t get me started. It’s not merely intoxicating; it’s fucking inspiring. I want to go to sleep with the tip of my nose touching her neck in a climate no more than a single degree too warm. I can’t imagine a thought more comforting—unless, of course, her willingness fell (even a tiny tick) short of mine in the fantasy.

Hey, what stops us from even going so far as to admit what you know we need despite (your) capable means to take it?

What makes us want anything we don’t need?

Finally, what lights the fire under our asses that leads to walking out on a limb?

At some point, the answer to any question, no matter which side tips the scale, comes down to one word.

Gravity.

The problem with widespread worldwide comprehension of our globally universal reality isn’t the concept itself; it’s the 7.7 (squared[?] {or whatever}) billion angles that filter through [“in and out of”] any version of its interpretation.

We all know why we’re in a hurry. Because we all know that we’re running out of time. In a hurry.

Gravity sucks.

Right now, you can feel it.

Why else would you be falling (against the radiantly valuable occurrence of a light source {to which you are naturally drawn})?

When was the last time you paid attention to a list of synonyms (connected) to the word “suck”?

• collapse 
• pull
• tug
• draw
• down
• spin
• attract
• drop
• fall
• weigh 
• consume

When was the last time you paid attention to a list of synonyms associated with the term “suck”?

Why do you want [and/or feel the need] to fuck the person crossing your mind as you ponder the question [this one here] through which you currently tunnel and never have to answer?

There are SOOOOOOOOOMANY shiny objects distracting us from what’s actually happening (all around).

“We find ourselves caught in suspended animation,” you might (never) think/say.

Now look what you did: it’s three weeks ago. That’s where we are in time. Thierry and I are binge-watching this new show on a “premium” network. It’s with that guy—you know who I’m talking about—he has been in other things; he’s funnily smart. This is probably his third show with that particular (corporate) entity, and by the time we shared first teamed consumption of the pilot’s conclusion, I could see {and appreciate} why she likes it. She was already 5 episodes in, so I took her to decision to re-watch them—in other words, to experience my intake of the content—before progressing (her ingestion of the story) to mean that she enjoys spending time with me and wants to know what/how I think. Anyway, we’ve come up with a topic for a thesis that neither of us will probably ever write: On How Art Can Bind People Who Should Not Be Friends, Let Alone Mate.

The series is like a two-layered onion (with many layers within those that couple of layers); that is to say, different intelligence levels will elicit laughter from humans for very different reasons. And in other words, you could watch, enjoy, and bond over a show with your mortal enemy.

Heck. I should probably provide an example.

This is where the example should go. [Eventually?]

I’ve figured out a lot of shit; but not everything. For instance, I can tell Thierry wants “something” from me that I cannot pinpoint. Something seriously could mean “anything.” I am of the suspicion, too, that she might suspect I’m “on the spectrum.” In other words, she doesn’t fully trust me. Good. She shouldn’t. I don’t trust myself.

Plus none of that is overly important right now. What’s important is making sure that we don’t die too soon. As I think this thought onto a “Liquid Crystal Display” screen, we’re on the run from “the law,” and Sevy still lives—we’re more so “on the run” from him it than human government officials. Once this reality changes, you truly might be the tenth [or so] to know.

Psst, are we more interested in preparing to survive through a decade(s)-long volcanic winter, or are ya more concerned about becoming the primary food source of a secret species that’s better than you at securing calories?

Because both the former and latter are probably happening regardless.

The long and short of this is that we need to work together.

Imagine not seeing the sun—or directly feeling its rays—for 10 years or more. I am woefully sorry, but it could happen. And it probably will. Prepare. The time, always, is now; in other words, light happens once.

Goddamn. The gems I’m spewing. I wonder when they’ll be noticed.

I hate Thierry. Obviously I don’t—I want to put babies in her and I might love her, too! Is that obvious? Is it “wrong”? Am I creepy? This all seems like reasonably logical curiosity to me. She’s rather exceptional; and, by definition, so am I. Hell, if we’re being totally objective, one could easily argue prove that, scientifically speaking, we are both/each singularly superior. So I can’t help but wonder how the recombination of our deoxyribonucleic acid might pan out were it to (re)create new life.

Right?

But it doesn’t have to happen. Seriously, either way, I’m okay [I mean, you know, unless I die (too) soon]; I’m fully e/p/m equipped to handle any potential outcome with her as far as lifelong partnerships go. Stuff/things change. Also, a mental/emotional connection does not necessarily imply the presence of a physical one; therefore, just because we can stare (mentally) into one another’s soul from afar, across time, and at the speed of light, it’s not an emotionally clear-cut signal that we could/would/should enjoy physically interactive courses of interpersonal action.

Anyhow, before she attempts to bear my offspring, first I’d like to know that my seed won’t likely kill her. Were I on trial by jury—clearly I’m not—that fact would be reasonably mitigating (in terms of factors), no?

Do you not wonder how our kids would turn out?

I’m thinking out loud. You know that. I’m “shootin’ from the hip” because there’s a good chance I’ll be dead soon. I’m running out of anything to lose. I find myself very confused (despite a heretofore matchless overall mental picture of existence), but I want/need to see what happens (in the future). In other words, I have no plans to perish on purpose, but I might be a little on the “unnaturally reckless” side these days.

Curiosity kills cats. It’s also why we domesticated them. Why else?

Curiosity propels life forward.

It’s not that I want to know how she feels when our eyes lock as I penetrate her (and continue thrusting {“properly” [if all goes well]}); it’s that I need to feel what it’s like to truly connect with her a person her. Do you see how very different these motivations are? She has attracted me across the (a)eons. This is not my anyone’s fault!

How smart are you?

It’s three days ago. Thierry has a migraine, precipitating an unusually early bedtime; I can relate. Also, we might’ve been awake ’til 05:00 this morning for many a nerdy reason. Whatever; I’ve been up in Sam for half an hour tops. The time can’t have reached the day’s 22nd hour yet. God, damn all these numerical conversions forcing us to think on the fly. Point is, it’s early, and I’m sober. Way off in the distance, I see a big sweaty fucker jogging. I’ve never seen him before around here. His path does not bring him near enough Thierry’s domicile to rouse suspicion. In retrospect, I know it was Severus.

I saw him 3 nights ago and didn’t know it.

That was hard to admit.

Anyone is capable of far more than you (can/may) think.

I underestimated my own uncle while overestimating myself.

Sloppy.

I should’ve had Halcyon with me {hidden} in the restaurant office the night all hell broke loose, but nope, it would (surely) be fine (again) in the trunk of my stupid car.

During mine and Sam’s time together, we saw plenty of nighttime joggers. Looking back, Unkie Sev is the only one I never saw thrice.

There’s a lesson here. We should learn it: familiarity breeds inattentiveness.

Does it sound like I’m describing a conventionally human marital union?

Ever heard of somebody falling tragically {to death} inside a climbing gym? It’s usually an old vet who had ascended so many routes that s/he finally forgot to clip in.

When you stop watching your back, you significantly increase the chance(s) of fangs puncturing your cranium.

“Familiarity breeds inattentiveness.” In other words, knowing what to expect next creates:

• an unwillingness to continue
• boredom
• stagnation
• predictability
• comfort

And (yet) here we go continuing in the name of seeking comfort.

Gosh, it’s almost as if gaining/maintaining one’s balance is a challenge.

Does (any of) this seem out of order?

What do you see?

Food?

Life?

Horns, earrings?

Grass, cattle, clouds?

The consumption of animal flesh amounts to perversion by any readable meaning of the word and—further carrying on with my obsessive insistence upon accurate translations of definitions and such—homosexual activity is less [not “more”] perverse {than eating (red) meat}. Though this fact may or may not be clear to you at this time, both “fudge-packing” and “meat-eating” are “unnatural,” but one (of the two) is much “worse” (than the other). If you find yourself unsure, I guess (maybe) just trust me. For now?

For real. Just trust me. My fangs were removed (a long time ago) and my venom glands were always lackluster in terms of chemical production.

Whatever you’re doing right now is not your fault. This is where living has led you. With any luck, you’ll look back on this time (in your life) and realize that your destiny is being realized.

Anyway, it’s, what, two weeks ago? I’m getting paranoid about sticking out like a sore thumb. So I “rescue” a “pet.” A descendant of wolves. A dog. A mutt. At 11 pounds, she looks like a really big, hairy sweet potato with seven nipples. Immediately, I started calling her Tonya. She responds to it and seems to thoroughly enjoy spending time in any lap which allows her shivering presence. Thierry likes her. Did you catch that? Present tense. Certain creatures aren’t dead. TB’s life has always been about staying fed and warm while avoiding as much fear as possible.

What’s your life been about?

The name with which she came was “Juju.” I didn’t like it. I changed it. I didn’t think much about it. I thought the name might be perceived as funny, and I was correct: it was perceived as funny. That picture (up there) was taken at a new co-worker’s home about 8 days ago, I think. One of Boogie’s many cousins. I gleaned that she has agreed to marry a guy who inherited a hefty chunk of money. So it’s “(board) game night” at his place—her idea, without question. He’s drunk and under the influence of cocaine; in that regard, he’s having fun. Seven people [two (human) females] show up for the playing of this game, a fresh delivery, a cross between Clue and something else—a thoughtless birthday present, as it were. Thanks to Thierry’s impromptu influence, I ended up attending, and obviously Tonya was there, too. The night came and went. I accidentally won. Reasons.

Board games have become a lot more complicated in the last couple decades. Have you noticed?

Do you ever “play”?

I happen to have a few “modern board game” ideas, but we’re busy discussing a dog.

Tonya is very wise for a dumb small mammal. I can see why she was able to survive “on the streets” for an unknown period time {in Brunswick, Georgia}. She never runs out in{to} the open; instead, if there’s an edge, she hugs it. And I think, really, deep down—based on how she screams while wagging {the ever-loving shit out of} her tail at other lifeforms—her only goal is to lead all [everyone] to safety; meaning that this simple creature has determined (through naturally pure instinct) that she’s safe with me.

I suppose you could say, “Tonya seems to be growing on you!”

You would not be wrong.

I’m right.

Yeah, if this stupid dog gets killed, I’m gonna lose it.

Anyway, the night I {unknowingly} saw Severus casing the joint, I think Tonya’s screams repelled his coming closer. I choose to look at that as a good thing. Maybe if he had come closer, I’d have recognized him. And attacked. And lost. I choose to believe that I must’ve rescued Tonya for a reason other than the obvious one of making Thierry like me more. I choose to believe that Tonya saved my life by deterring Severus from our proximity that night—that’s how humble/benevolent I am. I’m choosing to believe that the tiny canine I rescued went berserk over a fly in the house one night, saving me, the representation of a hero greater than your imagination can yet formulate, from a fight to my death.

Thus, Tonya, at least for the time being, has saved humanity from certain extinction.

And she’s clueless. As a dog, Tonya is a very simple organism, but also, given her special species [dogs are a product of artificial selection], she exhibits symptoms of emotional complexity. In other words, the bitch is ambiguously needy.

And you? Thanks to the concept of relativity, I can honestly say that you‘re doing a great job at not being absolute ass at living. Keep hanging in there. Answers are forthcoming.

All you need to know at the moment is that a nuclear winter looms on the horizon; meanwhile, I’m still trying to remove Severus Rex from this/our equation.

In order to survive, what do you need (most)?

Energy.

What is one without the other?

Gravity and energy: the same force trying to do opposite things. Yin versus Yang.

Now guess what fucks it all up.

Better yet, know the answer:

Amassing light.

Realizing one exists is where most species fail to evolve intelligence.

Dearest human, please submit to evolution.